


Monster

by Maiden_of_the_Moon



Category: Yuri!!! on Ice (Anime)
Genre: Eros Katsuki Yuuri, M/M, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Stream of Consciousness, That hideous tie is put to use, Viktor muses in shades of purple prose, bottom viktor, sorta - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-01-04
Updated: 2017-01-04
Packaged: 2018-09-14 14:51:03
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,102
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9187019
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Maiden_of_the_Moon/pseuds/Maiden_of_the_Moon
Summary: I’ve created a monster, he thinks, just once, just madly, his desperation obvious in the way he thrusts into the heady night air.





	

**Disclaimer:** I don’t own YOI or Lady Gaga’s Monster. 

**Author’s Note:** Dammit Jenna I had real work to do. 

I’ve wanted for a while to do something on Yuuri and “dual personalities.” Like, Normal Yuuri vs Eros Yuuri. This is… well. This is what resulted, anyway.

Please note that I speak literally one word of Russian, but from what the internet tells me, “ _Zolotse_ ” is an endearment that means “gold,” and is therefore and forever my favorite endearment for Viktor to use. 

**Warnings:** Purple ravings. Also sex. Written and edited pretty quick-like. No beta.

  
**XXX**

**Monster**

**X**

_He ate my heart  
(You little monster)_

_He ate my heart out  
(You amaze me)_

**XXX**   


“You’ve created a monster,” Chris had told him, laughing, bubbly like the champagne he was nursing from a flute. Over Skype, his eyes were brighter than his phone screen, brighter than the viral video that he had been linked to. That he was watching. _Eros._ An appreciative hum curled the corners of the younger man’s lips, the sound more sinfully silken than his boxer briefs.

As always, Chris wore his amusement like an accessory. _You’re never fully dressed without a smile,_ they say; should he ever have reason to frown, he would be arrested for public indecency. 

Viktor frowns instead. Honestly, Chris’ mind is as filthy as his underwear.

(So.) 

“You’ve created a _monster_ ,” Yuri growled later, low, his teeth bared and white-white-white between red-red-red cheeks. Viktor imagined the boy bursting into flames while studying his Japanese rink mate, melting all of wintery Saint Petersburg into a giant, steaming puddle. “Fatso’s become fucking _indecent._ ” 

Yuri is still young. He is sixteen. But then, Viktor remembers being sixteen: He remembers the things that sixteen year olds think about, what they do behind closed doors. He remembers how many flavors of frustration can curdle on the back of a man’s tongue. 

He bites his own and says nothing.

(But then—) 

_I’ve created a monster_ , he thinks, just once, just madly, his desperation obvious in the way he fucks the heady night air. Grunts are undercut by giggles; whines encourage delight more than relief. Viktor’s spine arches up— bending, folding, beautiful, a figure skater even when off the ice, even when on a creaking mattress— as his heart does its absolute damnedest to beat free of his ribs. It _pounds_. Hips pound, threatening to rip him into pieces. Till now, Frankensteinian feelings have managed to keep the Russian legend stitched together, have stopped him from falling artlessly apart, but as jolts of lightning crackle down the conduits of his veins, Viktor is unsure of how much longer he will last. 

(He is unsure of the last time he felt so _alive_.) 

“Please…!” 

His stomach is performing flips that would win him his sixth gold. The only gold that matters catches the lamplight, glittering. 

“ _Zolotse_ —!”

In answer, a hand is thrust into Viktor’s mouth. It is a decisive movement, delicate. Distracting. Lithe fingers linger as the one who put them there shivers-shudders-savors the feel of having penetrated another hot orifice. He pets; he purrs. Dirty praise is offered in Japanese, raw and rough, unintelligible but understood. Lust (love) is a universal language. It needs no translation. 

(“ _Ngh_ —!”)

Viktor needs, though. He _needs_. He needs so _badly_. A ringed finger strokes down his tongue, leaving other parts aching for similar attention. He has been touched everywhere except for _there_ , except for where he must be, and the unfairness of it all has him crying out: Muffled, gagging, _begging_ for his lover’s affections, though his sobs remain sweetly, cruelly ignored. 

_You just need_ me, he had been told. Ordered. Warned by the silhouette who slunk into his bedroom, robed in gossamer shadows and shades of obsidian. He turned midnight’s silence into music with his body. _Only me_. 

Viktor keens. He chokes. He remembers, and in so doing recalls that really, ultimately, he had created nothing: Nothing but the mess that pools within his navel. 

( _Only you. Forever._ ) 

The monster above him grins with silver teeth, lashes fanned and twinkling with the remnants of stage makeup. And this is a stage, yes; this is an act, yes, but it is also real, real, _real_ , in the same way that any masterful performance is real. A good actor births his character through empathy and understanding, by finding and connecting with a trait that they two share, something that already lives inside of them. Something that finds its way out, then inside again, then out, then in, then out, in and out, in and out and _oh_. 

(Oh.) 

_Oh_ , this is not a monster that Viktor has created so much as one he had _unleashed_ , one that had been kept on a chain deep within his beloved protégé. Before, the boy’s grip on its leash had only ever loosened when focus fell upon the rink, or when liquor-sweats had damped his palms and his hold on his personality’s other facets— those other selves that gave him dimension—, became tenuous. When his vision blurred. When it doubled, like a mirror in a mirror in a mirror.

Before, he had been a diamond in the rough. Now, he is cut and polished to perfection, and Viktor howls to see himself reflected in those gem-bright eyes, all but glowing though the gloom. They are indeed monstrous. They are magnificent. 

This creature is magnificent. 

“ _Vitya_ ,” his monster whispers, melodious. “Now.” 

(--!) 

Viktor gasps. He wails. He cannot but obey: Clenching, scrabbling, bursting, all of him, everything, everywhere, coming undone at the seams as he shatters. He is a hundred-million shards of ice spraying from the end of a blade; he is sparkling, spinning, adrenaline rushing and blood burning and breath pluming in a mist around him. The mouth that had swallowed his joyous shout is now trying to swallow the rest of him, too, and Viktor can think of no better ending. 

_Yes_ , he wheezes—the opposite of what one should be saying when attacked, but fuck it, fuck all of that, because— _yes, yes, yes, please, yes_. The begging continues as he is devoured, bitten and consumed by this insatiable beast who has him on his back, pinned, captured, helpless, arms bound above his head as if he were some sort of virgin sacrifice. 

Even without the (hideous) tie to restrain him, Viktor would not resist. Viktor does not want to resist. He _cannot_ resist, and so the monster does not stop. He ruts, and he coos, and Viktor hears a promise in the lilt of his pleasure: An assurance that mercy will come when he does. 

He hopes Yuuri never comes.


End file.
